


The Fall of Lyonesse

by cukibola



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Romans | Arthurian Romances - Chrétien de Troyes
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Animal Death, Camlann takes place in Lyonesse, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Morgan is Modron, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 12:39:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18052658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cukibola/pseuds/cukibola
Summary: The fall of Lyonesse was brought by the wrath of a goddess...





	The Fall of Lyonesse

To avoid the stench at the aftermath of the battle, Morgana ran between the corpses with a blue and silver handkerchief covering her mouth and nose. Who was she looking for? She herself did not know at all. One part of her wept over the fallen and the lives they might have lived and those they had left behind, the other rejoiced in the blood that now watered the land and sea after so long. Why then did the hooded woman move as if she were a ghost among the bodies of those who had been her friends, her rivals; her family and her enemies? Why then did she search among the corpses of the knights at odds with each other? 

She was moved by a primary and irrational instinct, something which might seem incomprehensible to those who had heard her stories, the woman who wanted to murder Arthur, who wanted to destroy Lancelot and Gwenhwyfar, the owner of Cath Palug and all the beasts, declared enemy of Merlin, Satan's lover had they even called her! For those liars Morgana had never ended up finding the love she had lost in Normandy, had never obtained forgiveness from her dear and compasionate brother, had never helped knights and others in need, and would never, ever, be the fair queen of Avalon. For them, obviously, Morgana would be totally incapable of loving her children. But they were wrong. The hole that had remained in her heart when Mabon had been snatched from her arms was only compared to that of his death by her nephew. And now, because of Arthur and Mordred; no, because of Iddawc, (because of that damn Iddawc!) Owain could have been hurt badly, or even worse. That's why she searched through the faces she tried to ignore almost wishing to not find his, and dodged the swords and spears of the scavengers with the agility of a specter: to look for her son. Her son.

She had lost so many years with him, unable to look him in the face again after attempting to assassinate his father. He was then just a newly knighted teenager, one whose mother's actions had hurt him more than they had helped. And yet, when they had finally met again, he, already a proper man, had forgiven her. And if anything had happened to him, Morgana would never forgive herself. The cawing of a crow caught her attention, for Owain knew how to command these and other animals, and she followed the black bird that was on its way to lean on his little one's shoulder, already knowing what she would find:

The lion laid dead in his son's lap. That majestic golden animal now looked just like one of the little kittens he used to play with as a child as he listened to his mother's songs. The animal would have seemed as if it were placidly sleeping had it not been for the dark wound in its belly from which the guts did not come out by the longsword that was still nailed to it. Uselessly, Owain's pale, bloody hand caressed his friend slowly, to the rhythm of his own breathing. More and more slowly, he caressed the fur of what had been his companion for most of his life, and who would remain his companion in the next: 

Owain, son of Urien and Morgana under the name of Modron, last in the line of Arawn and king of Rheged, leaned on the trunk of a tree with an axe nailed to the center of his chest. Morgana screamed, but could not hear her own cry drowned out by the violent racing beats of her heart and the growing anguish in it. Without thinking about it she rushed at her son, her increasingly pale son. She went straight to check the murder weapon: an axe with a small head and a long handle, one used by Mordred' allies, if not by Mordred himself, in the battle. Trying to avoid seeing the thread of blood (blood from her blood) descending through his mouth and nose that did not bode well, Morgana tried to think what to do:

That wound could not be healed by normal means. Priamus' balm, moreover, would also be useless as he had not been struck by a weapon identical or similar weapon to his sword. Simple healing magic based on energy would only exhaust her and be useless. She needed a fountain of water, and with it she could heal Owain. Yes. Lyonesse was an island, with the power of the sea she could heal Owain. She stretched out his arms to take him in her arms and carry him to the beach, but Owain denied it.  
Her son was no idiot, and neither was she. She knew very well that his sternum and several of his ribs had burst, and that the bones had stuck in his thoracic organs. Deep down, she knew that he could not be saved. Even if she took him to Avalon, he would have died long before reaching its shore. She hugged him as best she could, trying not to nail the gun any more, and rested her face on his shoulder, perhaps so that he wouldn't see her cry. Even in a moment like that, when she felt her heart ripped out and beaten, she had to be strong in front of her son.

Owain stopped caressing the lion's corpse with both hands, returning her embrace, or rather resting his hand on his mother's back. He did not cry, what for? If he was going to die, it would not be with fear or sadness. Knowing what his mother repented of, with a harsh voice and making a superhuman effort in his condition, he kept repeating again and again that he had forgiven her long ago. But those would not be his last words, no. In a final outburst, with the last beat of his heart and his last breath, Owain said:

"Mom, I lov..." And his hands fell suddenly, just like his face on Morgana's shoulder. 

"Owain?" asked the mother foolishly as she shook the corpse whose flesh (flesh of her flesh) would soon be crow's food, "Owain! Owain, answer! Owain! Owain, my child, my child..."

Arthur didn't have a wound that bad, no. Merely a stab wound in the belly. That useless imbecile traitor of Mordred, unlike the deadly wound he had inflicted on Owain, had not even touched the aorta. Unlike her last partner, who had bled to death in her arms, or her son, her beloved son treacherously murdered by his own cousin, Arthur would reach Avalon and would be saved. And part of her was deeply glad to know that her brother, blood of her blood and flesh of her flesh, would survive; but another thought only of how unfair it was that she had lost everything because of the loyalty they had owed to him and his stupid idea of a kingdom. And as Morgana carried the wounded king in her boat and together they sailed to the paradise island of golden apples, the thunder and the lightning and the rain and the waves of Modron sunk the magnificent Lyonesse forever. And there was devastation in Britain and Ireland.


End file.
